


Mea Culpa

by waywardelle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Barebacking, Dirty Talk, M/M, Rimming, Rough Sex, Season/Series 10, Season/Series 10 Spoilers, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2015-05-07
Packaged: 2018-03-29 12:16:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3895978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardelle/pseuds/waywardelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events in Dark Dynasty, Sam is consumed with guilt. Dean tries to change that in any way he can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mea Culpa

**Author's Note:**

> This is a coda written for 10x21 of Supernatural, "Dark Dynasty." If you have not watched that episode, this fic is a spoiler. Written originally on Tumblr at pathossam.tumblr.com.

The car ride back to the bunker is silent. Sam is well-versed in silence--especially the particular kinds of silences that Dean emanates. He still remembers the silence in the car after Lucifer had risen, and Dean announced in the parking lot of the hospital that Sam had been the one he depended on the most--and that Sam had let him down in ways he couldn’t even...

He thought he’d never hear a silence so loud again. He was wrong.

Tears flow unchecked down his cheeks, but he’s not sobbing--yet. He’s saving that for the cold and dark of his room, because no doubt he won’t be allowed to crawl into Dean’s bed tonight.

Dean’s face appears to be carved from stone. His expression hasn’t changed since it crumpled when he accidentally banged Charlie’s arm against the door of the Impala, trying to gently lay her in the backseat. He thought Dean was gonna lose it, and they locked eyes--Sam briefly saw the mawing grief there before Dean locked it down.

I did that, Sam thinks. I put that look there. 

Back in the bunker, Dean immediately heads to the library where their booze is stocked. Sam stumbles down the hallway, blinded by the tears. He takes a shaky hold of his doorknob and pushes through--but it’s locked. 

“No,” Sam groans, yanking the handle. He’s gotta get in there. He’s gonna lose it.

Dean finds him half an hour later, sitting with his back to the door, crying so hard he can’t breathe. His vision is spotty--he knows he’s hyperventilating, but he can’t stop. He feels Dean’s presence, feels his indecision. 32 years of conditioning versus his admitted righteous anger. Sam failed him. Sam failed everyone.

“Sam.” Dean kneels in front of him, reeking of whiskey. His left knee cracks like it always does, especially in the rain. “Sam. Stop.”

“My--the, the door, I don’t--the key, and--leave me, Dean, just leave. Just go, I’ll--”

“Where’m I s’posed to go, huh? I live here.” A warm hand lands on his knee. It’s still covered in Charlie’s blood. “I’ve got the key, Sam. I locked you out of your room earlier so you’d stop ducking away. So you’d have no choice but to come talk to me. Sleep with me. I haven’t--we haven’t--not in weeks, man.”

Sam cries harder. He knows. He’s been so caught up in trying to save Dean, he kinda forgot he was still alive. Still here, warm and everything Sam has ever loved.

“No, Sam--stop, okay? Listen, stop crying, I--” His voice breaks, and Sam looks up through the haze of tears to see Dean look down, away. “It’s killing me.”

“Mea culpa,” Sam murmurs nonsensically. “Mea maxima culpa.”

Dean takes in a huge breath, and when he lets it out, Sam smells whiskey and home. “It’s not your fault, Sam.”

Sam shakes his head, hair flying, sticking in the snot on his face. Dean brushes it back, but Sam shoves his hand away. Hurt, Dean quickly retracts his hand. “It is my fault, Dean. Like you said, I-- I dragged her into this, and I--”

“You put her in lock down with an angel. She--she uh--you did everything you could to keep her safe. She--she was an adult, she made her own choice, and.. I, hell--Sam, if it’s anyone’s fault she’s gone, it’s mine. She did this for me. To get this tramp stamp from hell off of me. She did it--you’re all doing it, because of--you know, what you said.”

Sam looks to his brother as Dean stands up, his knee crackling again. “That Charlie loves you? That Cas loves you?”

Dean closes his eyes, turns away from the word. “Uh--that. Yes.”

Sam stands, too, to tower over his stupid big brother, who may be the only person he has left, but also the only person he’s ever wanted. “She does--did--love you. And so do I, Dean.”

“Sam--”

Sam wipes his face on his sleeve. “No. You’re gonna listen.”

“I need more booze for this,” Dean mutters, walking off towards the library. He doesn’t get far. Sam stops him bodily, throwing his weight against Dean, pinning him to the wall, chest to chest. He holds Dean’s face, watching Dean’s gaze flit back and forth, trying his hardest not to meet Sam’s eyes. He traces Dean’s cheekbone with his thumb, and Dean’s eyes close. 

Sam’s brother is a miracle. He is a loud, obnoxious, arrogant, kind, gentle, beautiful gooey heart of a miracle. And Sam--

“I love you,” Sam tells him, his voice low. Sharing a secret, just for two. Their eyes lock and hold.

“Sammy,” Dean breathes back, and Sam understands. His whole life, every time Dean called him Sammy, he was saying I love you in the only way he knew how. 

“I love you, Dean. They can’t have you, okay? They can’t. You’re--you’re mine, okay?” 

“Sammy,” Dean repeats, his voice a growl. “Touch me, baby. Okay? God, Sammy, you’ve just gotta touch me--”

Their mouths clash together, teeth first, as they tear out of their shirts with greedy, seeking hands. Blood warm skin under Sam’s palms, the bump of his nipple twisted between Dean’s fingers, and Sam whines. His brother, his gorgeous brother, is taking him apart, tripping them over their jeans and shorts as they leave them in the hallway, making their way to Dean’s room. To their bed. 

Sam’s back hits the mattress, and he barely bounces back up before Dean is on him, naked and damp with sweat, and alive. So, so alive. 

“Fuck me,” Sam pants against Dean’s open mouth, and then bites his lip. 

“Yeah?” Dean grits out. “You want me to pound that ass, sweetheart?”

Filthy. Dean’s mouth is filthy when they’re like this, filthy and the sweetest ache. It makes Sam crazy, and it’s traveling down, sucking purple marks into his neck, biting at his nipples, tonguing the cut of his hipbone. Then he pushes Sam’s legs back and just looks, breathing hot air against Sam’s balls and the little pink hole tucked away, kept hidden from everything that is not Dean. No one else has ever touched him here--he has broken a lot of promises to his brother throughout the years, but the promise he gave to a 20-year-old Dean that demanded this was his place to lick, touch, fuck, only his, well, he’s kept that promise. The amount of pride he takes in that should be embarrassing, but. 

Almost two decades of doing this, and Dean can break him apart like no one else. “Come on, come on,” Sam chants, hitching his hips towards Dean’s mouth. The brush of air against him is maddening.

“You working that little hole for me, Sammy? Huh? Showing me how bad you need something in there?”

Sam hadn’t been, it was involuntary, but now he is. He knows how to break Dean apart, too. 

“Fuck. God. Fucking gorgeous, fuck, I’ve gotta taste you, I--” His tongue darts out, no hesitancy, a few strong licks that have Sam writhing before he latches his mouth over it and sucks, the sound obscene and perfect.

“Uh--uh, uhn. God, yeah, fuck, Dean--get in there, god, I need it.” He keens as two fingers are pushed in, wet and cold with lube. No matter how charged they get, Dean has never fucked him dry. 

They lock eyes, and with a last lick and a suckle to the head of his cock that has him squeezing the base so he doesn’t blow, Dean crawls back up his body, the muscle of his shoulders and abs rippling obscenely.

“Don’t make me come yet,” Sam complains. 

Dean chuckles into his mouth, sweeping his tongue in as an afterthought. “Taste good, huh, Sammy?” 

Gripping the base of his cock has somehow turned into jacking himself off. “Come on, come on, I’m ready. I don’t wanna come, Dean, I’m so close--”

“Remember the days I could get you to come two, three times in a fuck?” Dean’s eyes are smiling, but the rest of him looks feral as he drags his fingers out of Sam’s ass, brushing his prostate. 

“Not as young as I used to be,” Sam murmurs. He hikes up his hips and holds his thighs, knees to his chest, showing Dean his hole. Making sure it flutters like a hungry mouth. Because--

“Fuck, don’t do that, god Sammy, you look--” He grips the base of his own cock and closes his eyes, like it’s all too much, like he has to get it together. 

“Put that big cock in me, Dean, god.”

“This one?” Dean asks, tracing the head over Sam’s hole. “This the one you want?”

Sam wraps his hand around the arm Dean is using to brace himself. “It’s the only one I’ve ever wanted.”

They lock eyes again, and the mood shifts. It’s like they remember how they got here, the desperation, and the uncertainty of what’s to come. Will Sam have this in a week? A month? Or will it be gone? Why did he waste so much time? His brother is dying. They haven’t said it like that, but it’s feeling very familiar to that horrible year after Dean sold his soul. And look how that turned out. 

They both let out a breath as Dean pushes in, digs his knees into the mattress and works through all that muscle, and Sam opens for him like he always has. Nothing feels like this. Nothing will ever feel this good.

When Dean bottoms out, he braces himself on his elbows and rests his forehead against Sam's. His hips are shifting, but he’s not thrusting--giving Sam time to adjust, because even though Sam is taller than Dean, well. Dean is all bulk, and mountain man strength, and he’s a big boy--thick, a fine cut of meat, just under the eight and change inches Sam's packing. But thicker. Fuck, so much thicker. 

He can fuck like a pornstar but better, because he's present, Dean means every little move he makes. He can have Sam wailing in half a dozen pushes of his hips, but. This isn’t about skill or orgasms, and the desperation from before is gone, replaced with a bigger type of ache. Everything that is good and beautiful about his brother is there, reflected in the tears shimmering at the surface of Dean’s clear green eyes. 

“Don’t leave me, Dean,” Sam whispers against his brother’s mouth.

Dean makes a hurt noise, like someone punched him in the gut. Sam knows Dean can’t promise that, but he--fine. He at least--

“Wanna feel you for weeks after this,” Sam murmurs, his wet lips catching against Dean’s. “Tear me up, Dean. Do it. God, fucking do it--” He hitches his hips and Dean whines, apparently in a place beyond speech.

His powerful hips pick up a steady, punishing rhythm. The slap of their skin is obscene, but god, Sam loves it. It’s them, and they’re alive, sweating, moaning, driven to the base instincts of man by the feel of the other. It’s everything. Sam’s big brother is everything.

Sam yelps as Dean finds an angle that nails his prostate, so fucking full and all he can feel is the dick tearing apart his insides in the best way. He latches his teeth into Dean's shoulder, and the hand Sam's got on his cock picks up speed again. 

“You gonna come on my dick, Sammy? Hmm?” The words are back, apparently. Just in time. Sam loves listening to his brother’s voice as he gets off. “Fucking filthy, how much you love my cock up your ass.” He straightens up, dragging Sam’s legs over his shoulders and bending forward. 

Sam is nearly folded in half. His toes keep curling from where they are, by Dean’s ears. Dean digs his cock in deeper every thrust, all but nailing Sam to the mattress by the force behind his powerful hips.

“Come on, Sammy. Come for your big brother.” 

Sam does, a few minutes later, ass throbbing around the impalement, dick shooting streaks of milky-clear liquid as far as his chin the first time, and then in and around his navel.

“God, baby. Such a sweet boy for me, aren’t you, Sammy? You always come so fucking good for me.” Dean mumbles a couple more things to himself, and then his face contorts--but his eyes, they never close, and that’s for Sam. Dean knows Sam loves when the shutters come down, when all the love and devotion and affection and passion he feels for his brother comes shining out in this unguarded moment.

Dean collapses onto Sam’s chest, his lips mouthing against Sam’s nipple in an almost child-like way. “Fuck.”

Sam chuckles, and Dean hums as he feels the vibrations. They can’t get any closer to each other. It’s still not close enough. 

“Sam,” Dean starts, “I--”

“Shh,” Sam insists. “We can--we can argue later. Please, just, I can’t--stay here, please, please. This might be--” The last time, he wants to say, but he can’t. 

Raising his head to look at him, Dean seems to get the message either way. “All I was gonna say, Sammy, is that we--I’m not angry at you, okay? I was, but I--we’re all responsible. But I--I’m gonna take my revenge, Sam. I have to.”

“Oh, like with Kevin? And Metatron?”

Dean smiles sadly. “I can’t die, Sammy.”

“But this,” Sam gestures all around them, “this can die. It has before. This is--” He grabs Dean’s hair, a little longer than he usually keeps it. “This is what I love. You, I--all variations of you, Dean, but especially this--this is who I love. And I can’t lose him. I’ll lose my fucking mind. I would lose my mind, Dean.”

“I know,” Dean whispers. “Me, too, okay? Listen.” He clears his throat, and the flush on his face is a deeper red suddenly. “When I say that you’re all I have, I don’t mean I’ve lost everything else. I mean that nothing else in this world, the next world, Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, nothing means to me what you do. When I have you, I have everything. When I don’t, I have nothing. That’s what I mean. You’re all I have, Sammy.”

Sam sighs, running his fingers through Dean’s hair. The rain melted away the gel, and it’s soft and sticky and damp. It’s perfect. “I’m with you, okay? Any revenge, I’m in. You--you’re all I have, too.”

“Yeah?” Dean smiles at him, and Sam realizes he hasn’t seen that smile in months. God, he’s missed it. His beautiful, miracle brother. “Good. Because we’ve got work to do.”


End file.
